


Back to the start

by Builder



Series: Heroverse [8]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2019-02-08 21:56:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12873831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: When Bucky comes stumbling home from a day on the docks with a migraine, it's Steve's turn to step up.Pre-serum.  Heroverse.





	Back to the start

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prompt from tumblr. Fine me @builder051

When Bucky unlocks the door to the apartment, his shuffling steps lack the usual pep that imbues his walk.  After a long day on the docks, he’s usually happy to be home, eager to eat a hot dinner and slap sloppy kisses on Steve’s cheeks.  But it’s not the case today.

 

He’s relieved to be indoors and warm and away from the sonorous noise of the streets of Brooklyn.  The prospect of a soft pillow or a couch cushion under his head is so inviting he’s practically salivating.  His brain feels like it’s fit to explode. 

 

The sound of the doorknob clicking is enough to make Bucky wince.  It seems loud as a gunshot to his overly-sensitive ears.

 

“Hey,” Steve calls quietly as Bucky shuffles over the threshold.  His voice is softer than the environmental noises that have been plaguing Bucky for the better part of the afternoon, but it still makes him want to shut his eyes.

 

So he does, screwing them up and digging his fingertips into his forehead.  It doesn’t do much.  Just rearranges the pain signals slightly.  “Hey,” he whispers back.  The vibrations of his vocal cords and the movement of his jaw seem awkward, almost as if they’re going to throw him off balance.

 

Steve’s sitting at the desk with his back to the door, and he straightens up to peer over his shoulder as soon as Bucky speaks. Though Bucky’s squinting through his lashes, he sees Steve’s blonde brows furrow into an expression of concern.  “You ok?” he asks. 

 

“Uh, yeah,” Bucky replies automatically.  He doesn’t stop to think about the immense contrast the words set up against the obvious pain in his body.  He blinks slowly to consider what he’s said, but he doesn’t get the chance.  Steve’s suddenly hovering at his elbow. 

 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, taking Bucky’s lunchbox out of his hand.  “This is heavy.  Did you eat?”

 

Bucky tries to remember, but his workday seems like a blur, like a smudged fingerprint on the corner of a page of newsprint.  “I…guess not,” he concedes, taking a step past Steve and heading for the couch.  His knees are ready to give way by the time he gets there. 

 

“Buck?”  Steve hovers at his side.  He slips his cold, thin fingers under the curve of Bucky’s jaw.  “I don’t think you’re running a temperature.  Do you feel sick?”

 

Bucky’s never been so grateful for the apartment’s low-quality dim lighting.  But it still feels like it’s frying his eyeballs.  He pulls his arm over his face, burying his nose in the crook of his elbow and obscuring everything up to his forehead.  Even though he’s still and flat on his back, everything feels like it’s moving.  The couch seems to be bobbing up and down on nonexistent waves.  It’s beginning to send his stomach up toward his throat.

 

“My fucking head…” Bucky mumbles.

 

“Headache?” Steve poses, quiet compassion in his voice. 

 

“God.  Worse.” 

 

“I’ll get you some tea,” Steve offers.  “Or an aspirin?”

 

The thought of swallowing anything, liquid included, is distasteful.  Bucky’s own spit isn’t going down all that well.  “Naw,” he breathes.  “I don’t…I just really…”  He shifts his arm over his face.  “I feel like you, Stevie.”

 

Steve gives a singular exhale of sympathetic laughter, which Bucky imagines is accompanied by a sideways smile.  “Yeah, you’re not usually the one laid up.”  He gingerly pats Bucky’s shoulder.  “You sure you don’t want something to drink?  You really need to have something, if you haven’t eaten all day.”

 

The urge to vomit is sitting somewhere in the middle of Bucky’s chest, shifting slightly further up each time his heart beats.  It’s as if a string attached to his throbbing head is slowly yanking the sensation of illness up from his stomach.  “No,” he repeats, feeling the clammy sweat that’s starting to break out on his upper lip absorb into the sleeve still pressed to his skin.  “I…don’t feel good.”

 

“Some water, at least,” Steve presses.  “You don’t have to drink it all right now.”  His footsteps head toward the apartment’s tiny kitchen, and the sink runs with a sound that’s unexpectedly soothing, but still too loud.  It roars on in Bucky’s ears even after the flow cuts off.  It makes his sinuses hurt.  And his teeth.

 

Without warning, warm sourness erupts into his throat.  Bucky scrambles to rearrange himself onto his side, but he’s not quick enough, and a wave of acidic fluid comes up.  It soaks through the fabric of his shirt and the t-shirt beneath, leaving a patch of rancid-smelling wetness that feels like fire on his over-sensitive skin. 

 

“Jesus, Buck.”  Steve’s slight footfalls patter back to Bucky’s side, and he feels himself being pulled sideways until he’s leaning precipitously off the couch. 

 

The room’s blurry and tipping from the new perspective, and Bucky hears himself retch again, spattering the floor with more watery bile.  Nausea and vertigo belatedly catch up, crashing between Bucky’s eyebrows like a runaway train. 

 

“Fuck,” he mutters, bringing a trembling hand up to try to detach strings of snot from his lips.  He closes his fingers into a fist and presses it to his forehead in a weak attempt to stem the pain.

 

“Alright, Buck.  You’re ok,” Steve murmurs to him, tracing up and down Bucky’s shoulder. 

 

Bucky falls to his back again and covers his face with both hands, not caring that he’s pressing vomit fingerprints into his skin. “God.  Sorry,” he groans. 

 

“It’s ok,” Steve reassures.  “Just breathe, ok?  You’re alright.”

 

Bucky tries his best.  His heart rate stays elevated, and he can’t stop shaking.  His hands vibrate into his skull, upping the sensation of seasickness.  He sighs.

 

“You still feel like throwing up?” Steve asks.  There’s the sound of fabric hitting wood; probably a towel tossed over the mess on the floor.

 

“Uh.  Yeah,” Bucky admits.  “But…probably nothing left.” 

 

Steve slips his hand under Bucky’s shoulder, trying to prop him up.  “Have some water.  Then at least it’ll hurt less if you get sick again.”

 

Bucky jams his eyes shut against the dizziness, but tries his best to squeeze himself upright.  He can barely hold the glass Steve hands him, so both their hands stay there, overlapping, as Bucky takes a shaky sip.  The water is cool and soothing going down, but feels sloshy as soon as it hits his stomach.  Bucky holds the back of his hand to his mouth to suppress what’s sure to be a sickening burp.

 

“I…need to go to bed,” Bucky decides.  Everything is overstimulating, overwhelming.  If he can bury his head in his pillow, maybe there’s a chance to sleep it off.

 

“Ok,” Steve says, offering a wan smile.  “I’ll stay out here tonight.  Give you some peace and quiet.”

 

“No,” Bucky says, trying to find the floor with his feet.  “Come with.”

 

“When I’m done cleaning up.”

 

“Eh, clean later,” Bucky rasps.  He uses Steve’s shoulder as a crutch as he heaves himself off the sofa, and continues to lean on him down the short hall and into the bedroom.


End file.
